


(The Trick is to) Keep Breathing

by Radioheading



Category: Supernatural
Genre: BAMF Castiel, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Castiel and Dean Winchester in Love, Castiel/Dean Winchester-centric, Dean Feels, Dean Needs to Use Actual Words, Dean Winchester in Denial, Dean in Denial, Dean is Bad at Feelings, Dean pretending to be someone else, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Love, M/M, Male Slash, Post-Season/Series 04 Finale, Sam didn't come back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 09:16:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6798052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Radioheading/pseuds/Radioheading
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean, after the apocalypse. Sam doesn't come back, but someone else does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(The Trick is to) Keep Breathing

It's easy to stop hunting after Sam.

After Sam.

A.S.

It's like a year marker, his death, a break of before and after that marks more of the same, as the angel had said. More of the same, but a little bit worse, colors draining more and more from Dean's surroundings with the passing of days. And hunting becomes too much of a temptation, the knowledge that if reflexes are just a bit too slow, if it takes him a nanosecond too long to reach for his gun, he's done, a fleeting soul pulled away from the dug-in teeth of whatever monster he's decided to take down. So he stops. He takes a name, one with a clean record and social security number, one that's not wanted for credit card fraud and impersonation of FBI agents. He finds work as a mechanic in some sleepy Midwestern suburb full of people who fear God, who don't know that he's just a kid with an ant farm gone wild, abandoning it for failing to hold His attention. That the angels they believe in, the pictures of obedient, skyward-gazing beauties don't care, hold the human race in contempt for having stolen Daddy's ever-moving attention.

But none of it matters anymore, not when Dean gets up in the morning and makes himself coffee and goes to work where he's called Dan because it's close enough to the truth and sometimes, if the words coming out of a coworker's mouth are particularly distracted, it sounds like the real thing. He's leaving the past behind, locking it away and forgetting because that's what you have to do, keep moving, keep dodging, keep going. And though there's a crater inside, a hollowed-out hole filled with bile and the magma of anger at what he's had to give for people who will never know how close they were to the end of days, he doesn't poke at it, just leaves it alone lest it blow up and tear him apart.

On good days he forgets. Forgets that he ever had a brother, buys into the idea that he's Dan Marshall and doesn't think of an angel in a trench coat with eyes that only deal in the truth, in extended contact that used to creep him out, mostly because he knew the angel was looking below, beneath, peeking at his soul, one he was sure was twisted, black with hell's clawed fingerprints. No, he doesn't think about things that like anymore. Now it's spark plugs and brakes and mental notes to buy that soap that takes off grease because as much as he enjoys working on cars, the black shit on his hands looks too much like the residue of the people he used to rip apart. So he's thorough, scrubs until all that's left is rubbed-pink flesh and the cheerful scent of the girly soap the woman at the front desk always keeps in the bathroom. Sometimes it's easy, pretending to be a normal, well-adjusted almost thirty-something. Then he gets out from under a car, stands up and is lost in a sea of shimmering color that roars in his ears and eyes and remembers he hasn't eaten in three days. Or he'll find himself staring at the television, open-mouthed with dry eyes that ache to be blinked; a glance at the clock will show that four hours have passed, and he can't remember any of them.

It happens on a day that blends into the rest, uneventful at first, a hot dawn that foreshadows the unbearable heat to come, the kind that boils his blood as he lays under various cars, the flat blacktop soaking up the sun's rays greedily like a child slurping at a straw. Sweat trickles from his forehead, slides down over his temples while more collects at his back, makes his t-shirt stick, plaster to the wet skin that makes the women whose cars he fixes lick their lips unconsciously, a tic he'd enjoy if he cared much about sex anymore. He'd slept with a few women since the apocalypse, held their bird-boned ribs between his long fingers and tried to forget himself in the animal rush to release, but even the seconds where his mind only found pleasure and sensation, he was wrong, heavy, drowning it its shackles, not freed by its boundlessness. He tries not to think of it much, about how pathetic he's become, how he can't lose himself in others anymore, though he's slipping away nevertheless.

He leaves the garage with a wave and a nod, his throat sandpaper dry and aching from the heat. His apartment is nice enough, two bedrooms because he's not giving up hope, no matter how many days pass, though the extra room stays empty because seeing vacant draws and a constantly-made bed would be too much of a reminder. The floors are clean and the walls are almost bare, like he's still a moment away from picking up and moving away, forgetting the town as it gets smaller in his rear view mirror. He's hovering in this life, trying to put down roots that aren't taking, that are deprived rain and still expected to dig deep. Daddy's little soldier. Keep on trucking.

When his key slides into the door and the pins align to grant access, he's not expecting someone to be waiting inside. Not when he has the only key and the entire perimeter is safeguarded by protection spells and blessings, salt tucked by every window and door. So when he smells the dew of morning and the electricity of the air just before a knock-down, drag-out storm, he doesn't reach for a weapon, doesn't even bother to address the man standing in the entryway. He turns his back, closes the door and slides past the body currently taking up most of the hall, the wake of his wind rippling a familiar coat.

“Hello, Dean.” The angel says, looking at him with those eyes, with that searing _I know everything you've ever done_ glance. It kick-starts Dean's heart in his chest, a beat so loud he's sure it's audible, a sound that could echo out for miles, pounding with fear and anger and a strange aftertaste of longing he doesn't quite recognize. It's discarded, cast into a folder marked nostalgia; the angel is a relic of a time when his brother existed, when Sam, though fucked-up as ever, was alive, tortured by himself. Now the demons take their turn, and maybe even Lucifer, too. Bile fills the passageway of his throat as he remembers flashes of himself in the pit, though now it's Sam's screams that ring in his ears, Sam's face that twists and cringes as he's asked if he wants to get down, if he wants it to stop. If he's ready to give up on goodness and let his eyes fill until they're obscured, black with the cloying evil of hell.

Dean's crying. He must be. It's the only reason why the angel's steady hand would be reaching for his face, why thin-tipped fingers skate over slick skin to gather the moisture there and wick it away. Dean almost gives in to it, allows his eyes to shut for a moment and leans forward before he snaps back to himself and jerks away, allowing a safe distance to be made between them.

“Get away from me,” he snaps, almost baring teeth in a dog-smile warning. “I don't know you.”

"Don't lie to yourself, Dean.” The angel steps forward, eyes pinning Dean so the wall behind him is his only support, his only safe haven against the powerful being that's coming ever closer, inching forward until he can feel its breath on his teeth, soft as zephyr.

“Don't pretend with me, Dean. Not with me.” The angel shifts suddenly, twitching in his jacket until it isn't on anymore, choosing to lap at their feet like the ocean tide, though the fabric remains still, an ineffectual little blanket. He thinks of laughing, pictures the angel gripping at the sleeve of the coat, dragging it after him wherever he goes. But the angel won't get it if Dean calls him Linus, so he decides not to waste the breath that's suddenly caught in his throat as the button-down encasing a thin but muscled chest is shucked off as well.

“I don't know you,” Dean says again, his chin lifting in defiance, watching bright blue irises darken into a mottled navy. He would continue, would deny forever just to see the look of anger and hurt in the angel's eyes because then maybe he could find some familiarity there, but he doesn't get that far. His words are pushed back into his mouth by the emergence of appendages that don't belong on humans but fit perfectly on angels; great, shifting, slightly noisy wings the color of the setting sun, a gold-cast clarity of warmth and everything heaven's supposed to feel like.

Dean feels his mouth drop open, a cliched reaction he'll never admit to, but there are _wings_ in front of him, reaching for him almost, stretching forward to envelop. And they do, running over his shoulders, sliding around toward his back. He groans, a stunted thing that he tries to stop as it's halfway out but it's too late and this feels too good, a massage on ecstasy, each touch sending a shiver of molten need zinging down his spine.

“Cas.” Dean shakes, trembling as arms follow where wings went first, a body that feels human enough pressing into his, arms wrapping around him as he loses his balance and hits the ground knees first, taking Cas along for the ride. The impact doesn't hurt though, doesn't disrupt the perfection he's being bathed in, the sense that he's finding something that he never knew was lost. Cas' eyes glow now, like the sun's shining from them, a ring of light like the sea of the Caribbean. His hair is still that electric black, unkempt and soft, he finds, as his hands forget themselves and find their way to the thick silk, tunneling through until they're wrapped behind the angel's neck.

“Dean.” A syllable, a name, a definition. It's a single word but it's _his,_ and Cas is naming him again, remembering who he was with a single breath shaped by down-turned lips. And with those same lips, he surges forward faster than the eye can track and kisses Dean, tentative pecks, water-testing kisses that aren't refused, are met with zeal and bruising need. He can't control this, the earthquake that's rocking his insides, breaking down the crystalline structure of his 'normal' persona; he's worked so hard to put in in place, but who is he kidding? It's falling down around him, shattering into glistening rain that lands on his skin, laying him open and bleeding. So he just holds on, breathes their shared air in, licks and sucks up and down Cas' neck, unperturbed by how off-putting the stubble there feels because it's just a new sensation, a raw addition to the lava flowing in his veins.

“Cas,” he says into the angel's mouth. “Cas.” And it's just a label for a being that's so much more than the limiting syllables of words and names but it feels like more, like accusations and apologies, the convolution mix of _I don't want you to know I've missed you_ and _I need this why didn't you come sooner?_

“I won't hurt you,” Cas says into his ear, biting into the soft flesh there, kneading it with blunt teeth in circles that short out the speech center in Dean's brain. Looking back, he can say that yes, he was warned, but at that moment it takes all his will not to piss himself when a supernova bursts in his entryway, a star dispersing itself through the infinity sky, one he clings desperately to. Cas shifts in his grip though, moves without moving, expanding in some places and contracting in others until he's over seven feet tall and thin as those Lord of the Rings elves. Eyes he doesn't remember shutting open, take in the man who doesn't look like a man, who doesn't look remotely human anymore but is beautiful, so, _so_ beautiful nonetheless. He's glowing, not Twilight glowing but _glowing,_ throwing out enough energy to power New York for a millennium. He's not tangible, not quite, but the angel feels solid enough under Dean's now sweating hands . His eyes are still blue, lips still pale red, but his nose is a mere impression of its previous shape, hair the velvet black of space's vast emptiness, flowing like it's under water in an almost-orbit around his head.

Dean moves to speak but breathes instead because spots begin to obstruct the view of Cas, one he doesn't want to interrupt. And anyway, the angel shakes his head, the impression of a smile on his lips. He reaches for Dean again, though this time he aims for the human's temple.

“What—” he starts, but he's hushed.

 _I'm just lending you something,_ Cas says in Dean's mind, his true voice the grave clarity of five-hundred-year-old bells, an echo it usually takes an empty field to produce. _Don't worry._

So Dean doesn't, especially when the sensation of hot water on the coldest winter day trickles through him, beginning at the tips of the angel's fingers, moving over his face and chest, down his back, tingling in his sex, which twitches to volunteer its obvious interest. He flushes, but Cas just laughs.

_Shy humans._

_Jaded angels,_ Dean snaps back, enjoying more of the laughter as it dances across his own skin, tiny caresses that catch on the hair of his arms.

_Look down, Dean._

It's a strange request, but he does, first noticing the obvious bulge in his jeans, though he doesn't try to adjust it, doesn't acknowledge it this time. Mostly because like Cas, he is now glowing. But his is different, a soft pool that illuminates the inside completely and emanates from the heart, an organ that shines so brightly he imagines he's staring into the sun, letting it sear his eyes until all he can see is the honey-cast stretch of horizon.

_Cas, what's—what did you do to me?_

_You carry a piece of my grace._

_Why? I—I'm not—_

_Because, Dean Winchester, you don't save the world and go to hell. You need to know the truth._

“Truth?” He moves his mouth this time, rolling his tongue between the marbles of anger stored there. “I know the truth. Sam's in hell and I'm here. No good deed goes unpunished, right?”

Again, that tinkling laugh. But this time, it's accompanied by the strangest sort of _push,_ like something's slipping past his skin. It's not wrong, just different. And different turns into fantastic when it happens again, when something new twines around his heart and slides against whatever's filling him already, when it curls and uncurls and leaves him gasping, glad he's already on the floor. He chokes on his own spit, falls forward and is caught easily in Cas' changed arms.

 _Sam isn't in hell,_ the angel whispers in Dean's mind before curling tendrils of what has to be his grace over the man's skin, then through, dipping into a shaking soul.

_Use my grace. Touch me back, Dean._

_I—I don't know how._

_Don't think. Just do._

Dean reaches with his mind, or tries to, opens himself and tries to push like Cas does, allows the patchwork of his soul and the loaned, intertwined grace to venture out of himself, to card its way through the wings he'd forgotten about, the wings that surround them, cut them off from the rest of the world. Cas shudders against him, teeth clicking between murmurs of a language Dean doesn't know, one that's sleepy and thick, breathy exclamations pitching high as he threads his soul through the down of the wings the wrong way, disrupting the pattern. Cas recaptures his mouth, winds in and around, tongue licking at every crevice he has, wanting to know, to memorize every detail. Dean's just having trouble remembering that he needs to breathe.

“What changed, Cas?” Dean grunts into the angel's shoulder when they take a moment to surface. His nose digs into soft skin and the edge of a thin white undershirt that smells faintly of fabric softener. “Why are you here?”

“Nothing changed, Dean. And that's the point.”

“Cas.” He practically growls. Now is not the time for roundabout answers made even more frustrating with a smile. Now he needs the facts.

“Angels don't want to stay around their charges because they've been taught to enjoy things, Dean. They don't learn that pie is worth trying, that people who have been condemned might be worth saving. But I did. And I developed an....attachment. And then I died, Dean. I died and was brought back and nothing had changed. I was still the same, felt the same as when I was falling. But I was more powerful. I _am_ more powerful. And do you know what that means?” He lays his hand on Dean's chest, allows his eyes to fall shut, blocking out the drowning blue, and then Dean _feels._

He feels the first bloom of love in veins that don't recognize the emotion, that hum with useless power based in absolute obedience to a deity he's never seen, a father he's only heard of. Confusion comes next, over why the flash of green irises could stop a heart that's for decoration only, why something jerks inside when they look at him too long. Old time movies sift through next, black-and-white women declaring love and kissing—and then a streak of understanding, a mystery solved.

Cas is in love. Cas is in love with Dean. And somehow, when God decided to bring a lowly little angel back from an abyss of nothing, he allowed the traitorous feelings to remain, to flourish in a being who would be new, a middle ground between human and angel, a thinking, feeling entity freed of the compulsory obedience programmed in him since the beginning of time.

“I'm your rewa—ahh,” Dean's voice leaves him when Cas' hand sinks through his chest, when the angel funnels himself through the reaching limb, rolling and expanding, exploring with his grace the places Dean doesn't allow anyone to see.

 _You're my reward,_ the angel agrees, and then makes everything fall away with a vibrating hum that turns Dean's entirety into a nerve ending, one that begins in the confines of his soul and makes him grit his teeth to keep from screaming until his lungs give out from the stimulation.

 _I put you back together._ Cas' still lips are on Dean's skin, the ridge of his collar bone. Funny—he doesn't remember undressing. But when the angel laves at the skin there, licks the salt of a hard day off the extruding bone, it doesn't matter. His eyes roll back in his head and everything whites out, noise in his ears and eyes, the beauty of elevation flooding through him, rolling lightness coaxed from him by Cas' grace, the residue of which marks his soul, matching the hand print on his shoulder.

_I kept your soul safe in my grace when I rescued you. Yours shone brighter than any other I've ever seen, even in hell. You're mine to keep if you'll let me, Dean._

“I want you,” Dean grates, voice low and breathy, leaking sex. His pants are sticky, will become uncomfortable quickly, but for now he's alright, he's content to remain here in the angel's arms. “I want you to be mine too.”

“Always, Dean.” Cas' head is on his chest, listening to the pounding rhythm he'd incited.

***

Sam comes to Dean in a dream, the kind that feels too real to be just the imaginings of a freed psyche. He's tan, hair shaggy, lighter. He bites his lip as he approaches Dean, stuffs his hands in his pockets and slouches, just like always.

“Heaven, huh?” Dean asks when Sam steps next to him on the dock where he stands, gazing out at the glass surface of the lake in front of them.

“I couldn't go back.” There are tears in his brother's voice, like he's prepared to be met with rejection, cast out and called a failure. “I did too much bad in that life, Dean. And I couldn't let you live to protect me. I had to let it go. I had to let _you_ go.”

“I know.” He stares straight, refusing to acknowledge the warmth on his own cheeks. “I miss you, Sammy.”

“You too.” His brother clears his throat, scrubs a casual hand across his face. “But I hear you've got pretty good company.”

“Shut up,” Dean snaps through a smile. And just like that, they're back. Together. They don't talk much after that because the silence is comfortable, and there isn't much left to say. Dean wakes to Cas running a finger down the line between his rib cage, tracing the silver scars that run across the skin. Dean takes the angel's hand, lays it over his heart.

He doesn't say anything because he's Dean Winchester, a man who doesn't give in to chick flick moments, so it's lucky that Cas doesn't rely on what's said to understand what his human is asking of him. It comes to Cas loud and clear from the bottom of Dean's soul, a single question, a request of the angel.

_Put it back together?_


End file.
